


Turning Pages

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Crush, Dark Character, Dark Magic, Demons, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:18:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank isn't used to not getting what he wants. Even when he doesn't really know what he wants. He's a practitioner, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning Pages

When Frank’s girlfriend turns their tiny dining room into a second bedroom, after saying some sarcastic and bitchy comments that are entirely uncalled for, he doesn’t much care. If she wants to sleep in a room that gets direct sunlight at five am it’s her choice. Then, after a few months of that, he comes in from Eyeball to be met with an apartment devoid of half its normal crap. A note is duct taped to the fridge telling him she isn’t interested in being anybody’s fucking beard, that she likes having sex with her boyfriends. Frank doesn’t do as much as text her asking where she went. After such a bitchy move, it’s not like he’s going to beg her to come back.

Living alone is nice. In some ways it’s sort of like what he and Shannon had. Except now when he makes meals he gets to have leftovers for breakfast the next day, and he doesn’t have to worry about using all the hot water. 

Unfortunately she did bring something important to their relationship that he’s now lacking. Money. There’s no way Frank can afford to keep the apartment by himself. He could raise something Financial, probably. Considering though that nearly every entry is one time use, and he’s still got major life purchases like a house, or college fund for his kids in the distant future, it’s better to wait. He can fix this issue himself, he should save the big moves for more difficult situations.

He posts roommates notices everywhere. At work, in both newspapers, on a bunch of different sites online. When Frank starts to get concerned he prints off a bunch of business card sized ads and scatters them over the next few buses he has to ride to work. That backfires. None of the urban, too cool for traffic, too environmentally friendly for gas guzzling, too pleasantly drugged to be trusted behind the wheel twenty-somethings come to his door. Instead it’s a stream of homeless, crazy, or smelly people. Quite often it’s all three.

The day before Frank’s left with the options of moving back in with his parents -bad- or asking them for a loan for rent -worse- or consulting the Book -a waste, and possibly dangerous- his door is knocked on again. Frank learned after the fifth guy to peer in the spyhole before opening the door. He does; the guy doesn’t look homeless or crazy or smelly. He looks a bit violent, possibly, with the black skullcap and all black clothes, but Frank can deal with ‘looks violent’. From a distance Hambone probably looks like a convict too. He opens the door.

“Hey. I’m Bob,” he says, slipping off his shoes at the door. Frank gives him a point for that, and another point for the black and green striped socks. “I saw your ad at my work? Your card was taped to the bathroom wall, someone wrote call this guy for drugs. But I actually read it, and it looked like you were just looking for a roommate. I’ve got references?”

He’s. Got. References. Frank has a potential roommate in his apartment that has honest to God _references_. “Fuck it, don’t need them. When you do want to move your shit in? You might want to buy a black out curtain, this side of the building gets painful amounts of sun in the morning. You’ve got the room beside the kitchen, but I promise I won’t make smoothies at three in the morning.”

Bob shrugs. “I’ll probably just be getting home then. I do sound at a club.”

“No shit, really? I work at a music label. What do you listen to?”

And so it goes. Things with Bob are good, barring a few minor accidents. Frank gets home from work one day to find Bob wrapping toilet paper around his thumb and taping it down, spots of blood everywhere from the splintered MDF. That’s when he officially takes over any Ikea related tasks. A few days and a smoke alarm shrill later he claims cooking for the both of them as well, shit that’s easy for Bob to heat up when he gets home from work. Half the time Frank’s coming home with him. Bob’s got a good bar. Good enough that Frank’s willing to struggle to work on five hours of sleep a few nights a week.

The real problem is the morning Frank wakes up and there’s someone in his kitchen. Frank screams and grabs the nearest handle on the butcher’s block, because this is Jersey and it’s not like the locks on his apartment are very sturdy. It’s a paring knife, but it’ll do. Worse comes to worst, he’s pretty sure the Book has a Disposal entry.

“Bob!” the guy screams. “Fucking Bob! Come fucking here fucking now!”

Bob apparently hears the burglar's terror and opens the bedroom door. “What the hell? Dan, you said you didn’t have to work this morning.”

“I’m not _leaving_. I was going to make myself breakfast, until this fucking psycho pulled a knife!”

Bob groans. “Frank, put down the knife. That’s Dan. He’s my boyfriend. It would be hard to keep fucking him if you stabbed him to death.”

“Maybe not hard, but illegal,” Dan quips, and meets Bob for a kiss that Frank can’t help but stare at, even as his stomach starts to flip. “Ugh, morning breath.”

“Technically middle of the night breath, for me. I’m going back to bed. Frank’ll be going to work, so you make whatever the hell you want.” With those last words Bob closes his door and Frank goes to the bathroom so he can gel his hair and avoid thinking about awesome funny Bob having sex with other guys. Somehow he thinks he’s going to need more than hair gel to do that.

It’s not Frank’s first experience of you don’t know what you want until it’s gone. Except Bob Bryar isn’t the last maple dip doughnut, and he’s not the awesome band that would have been mind-blowing in concert except they broke up three months before you discovered them on the internet. Bob is a human, not a covetous item or experience, and so not only does Frank feel shitty for not having him, he feels like a tool for mentally treating him like an object. And his reaction is made even lamer by the fact that it shouldn’t even be a shock. Bob’s always been not available, Frank’s just never been smart enough to ask.

He’s coping decently, in his opinion. The miasma of regret and longing and self-hatred at being such an idiot that sits on his stomach like a weight reduces his appetite a bit, but what twenty first century citizen eats three square these days? Not sleeping because his brain won’t shut up about ‘what ifs’ isn’t that bad. He used to stay up playing video games or going to Bob’s club; he’s still getting the same number of hours of rest. He’s fine.

Then he’s not fine, because Bob asks if he wants a seat on the bus. Frank asks what he means and carefully schools his features as Bob explains. Apparently all of Bob and Dan’s friends and family are renting a Greyhound and driving it to New York so Bob and Dan can get married. The longer Bob goes on about how legal it is or isn’t, the more Frank’s brain fries.

Finally Bob seems to take in the gruesome smile stretched over his teeth. He pauses briefly then jumps to reassure him. “Don’t worry, you still have a few months to find a roommate, Dan’s in his dorm until grad.”

Frank should feel stupid for not realising that living together would be the next step for them, leaving him with too high of a rent for a second time in a year. He doesn’t have time for that, he’s too busy feeling stupid about not recognising their relationship for what it is. It’s not like there haven’t been signs. Bob’s not wearing a ring, but he does have a white leather wristband he hasn’t taken off, the type that are one solid piece of leather but somehow manage to be braided. No doubt Bob would have explained the meaning if Frank had said something about the piece. Frank never complimented Bob on it because complimenting guys on their jewellery was a bit gayer than he’s okay with being. He tries not to look at Dan often, sure the things he’s able to censor himself from saying would be written on his face, but undoubtedly he’s got a matching piece.

Frank would like to be able to tell his fellow practitioners it was a long and well thought out Raising. The fact that it isn’t is something he’ll keep to himself. By the next time they meet he’ll have a list of reasons why that not even Old Hancock could fault. But the truth of it is that Frank just snaps. Bob is sitting on the couch, half waiting for Dan, rapidly muting and unmuting as he channel surfs. He’s apparently fine with hearing an Oxyclean infomercial, keeping it on for several minutes. J-Lo on MTV is deemed completely unacceptable. It’s about forty minutes after Dan promised to be there and he still hasn’t arrived, not that that’s a shock. He’s usually so bad with guestimates that Bob refers to it as ‘Dan time’. Frank keeps eyeballing the empty cushions. The couch is much more comfortable than the armchair he’s usually relegated to. Right now there’s no Dan snuggled against Bob, and he can always move when he finally arrives.

Frank stands, and takes one step towards Bob. Then he thinks of the future, what it’s going to be like in fifteen minutes when Dan’s key in the door makes him move. In an instant he breaks. He nearly sprints to his room, tripping on the corner of the rug that always bunches up. His Book is in a box inside another box under his bed, and if hiding important shit under your bed is a cliche it’s so for a reason. It’s simultaneously easy to get in an emergency and awkward for others to get at any time. He’s a decently sized person and he barely fits under the frame. It would be impossible for someone bigger to do the same.

Frank’s Book has three different colours of pages. He’s heard rumours that some people’s have four, but he’s pretty sure it’s bullshit. He can’t even think of what a fourth would represent. Not to mention he’s been going to meetings for almost a decade and he’s never met someone with beige pages. Everyone he knows has the normal three. Different amounts according to age and ambition, of course. Because he’s young and he’s been taught the importance of careful Raising, most of his pages are still medium brown. Any pages that colour have captured demons not yet used. The nearly black pages are the one use demons he’s already used. Finally the rust pages are for the not preprogrammed demons, the ones he can still catch. Frank’s clan doesn’t believe in teaching that skill until the practitioner is twenty five. Frank’s unsolicited opinion is that’s arbitrary and stupid. Then again, he’s twenty two.

Regardless, he’s got no interest in catching right now. He’s got one demon in mind and that specific page is all Frank needs. The pages are thick, not the kind that let you flip through them with a well placed thumb. Each drawing twitches as he passes it. They all want their moment in the world. 

He flips it to Divorce, suddenly glad he didn’t waste his on the Red Hot Chili Peppers. He holds his left hand up and scores small lines on each finger, pressing in harder a second time in a few spots when the skin doesn’t tear so he has five unbroken lines. Cutting an even circle on his palm is more difficult, having past scars doesn’t make it any easier. He does his best. Only when blood has properly welled up does Frank turn his hand and press it on the page. 

As the demon drinks his blood, Frank quickly sets the terms. “I promise to let you work in a manner of your choosing, against Bob Bryar and Dan Alle-Corcoron.” An instant before he moves his hand and breaks the seal he thinks to add “within a month of their marriage, please.”

He moves his hand. There’s no trace of blood on the page, but the drawing of Divorce and the page itself are rapidly darkening. Frank watches until the page is brown-black, then puts his Book away. He needs to find gauze for his hand. Heal is one of the few repeatable demons, but he’d have to slice the marks into his right hand to Raise it first. It’s hard enough to be accurate with his left hand normally, it would be far worse with his grip slippery with blood. And if it’s not one connected line, the demon won’t drink. It’ll be easier to just bandage his hand and wait for everything to scab up. Yeah, there’s the issue of Bob wanting to know what happened. It’s hard to be worried about it though, when he’s gotten what he wants. This time next month Bob may not be his, but at least one major obstacle will be gone. It’s a start, and well worth the expenditure.


End file.
